Porcelain
by Ava J Moore
Summary: Following Amber's tragic death, Wilson distances himself from House, PPTH, and those around him in a desperate attempt to find solace and peace of mind.
1. The Sound of Silence

Title: Porcelain  
Rating: R (strong language, drug use, mild violence, and adult content)  
Category: Wilson/Amber, Wilson/Other  
Spoilers: "House's Head" - "Dying Changes Everything"  
Plot: Following Amber's tragic death, Wilson distances himself from House, PPTH, and those around him in a desperate attempt to find solace and peace of mind.  
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or locations of _House, M.D._, however, I do own all original characters. It should also be noted that I do not own the song "It's My Life" by Bon Jovi.  
Author's Note: I would like to dedicate this novel about losing yourself, taking risks, and discovering who you are to my best friend Crystal (Luciddream326), you know the reasons.

Chapter One:  
The Sound of Silence

"_**Sooner or later it's over, I just don't want to miss you tonight…" - The Goo Goo Dolls, "Iris"**_

Dr. James Wilson let out a long sigh and unknotted the tie he was wearing. The soft blue tone didn't feel right to him. This wasn't a social event he would soon be asked to attend; it was the funeral that he had spent the last week and a half dreading. The thought of having to inter to woman that he loved was more than he could handle, but he handled it in the same fashion he had so often handled when faced with giving a mother of two small children the news that she was terminal: with a detached sense of efficiency. He followed the creed that had been laid out before him by the man he so often called "_friend_", but in the light of recent events had began to question the veracity of that title.

It was because of Dr. Gregory House that he was standing alone in the bedroom that he had once shared Dr. Amber Volakis trying to decide which tie would allow him to maintain an illusion of acceptance without revealing the disastrous truth of how he felt. He knew that no matter what he wore he wouldn't be able to conceal the truth from those closest to him, but it wasn't House or Dr. Lisa Cuddy that he feared, it was the Fellows under him and House's team that concerned him. It was those that looked to him for help, guidance, and support that he would be wearing the fragile façade for; it was for those that might doubt his ability to continue and would start to question his confidence. It was, in essence, a mask that he would wear to hide from himself.

"This isn't working for me," he spoke aloud to no one, "I need something that's a bit less cheerful." he said wrapping the soft blue tie around his hand. It wasn't until he reached the collection of ties resting on the bed he had bought with Amber that he noticed that the tie wrapped around his hand was cutting off his circulation. He felt the silk of the tie becoming tighter around his hand, but he had fought the sensation that was building until he couldn't bear it any longer. Looking down he saw that the fingers on his right hand were becoming a strange shade of purple. Closing his fingers around the silk tie he felt the strain course through him. It was strange and almost alien to him, however, it felt like an old friend he hadn't spoken with in years returning to him.

Wilson allowed the sensation to linger for a moment longer before unwrapping the tie from his hand. Glancing over the selection before him, he rested the silk tie back where it had been before, filling in the gap between the assorted shades of blue he had set out minutes before. Moving further down the color spectrum he knew that he wanted something a bit darker. In an effort to circulate the blood in his hand, he ran his right hand across the ties until he came to a stone-washed gray tie. It was dark enough that it wouldn't seem out of place in a funeral, but it was light enough that those around him wouldn't take a second look at him. Affording himself a moment to himself, he lifted the tie from the bed and walked over to the mirror. "Much better," he whispered to himself, "this will do fine." he continued.

Satisfied with the selected tie, Wilson rested the loose tie around his neck. The man looking back at him in the mirror was a complete stranger. His face was littered with the shadows of facial hair, something James Wilson didn't often allow for, casting a strange almost House-like aura over him. Moving in closer he could see the black outlines that had taken residence under his eyes, aging him twenty years overnight. Wilson knew there wasn't much he could do about that, however, he did remember a trick that Amber had once shown him. Scanning the edge of the vanity near the edge of the bed he spotted the compact that Amber had left the evening she went to bring House home from the bar.

Taking a deep breath, Wilson walked over to the vanity and removed the compact. He felt strange opening the compact and looking at himself, but he knew that he had to do something about the ravages of emotional war under his eyes. Moving the mirror so he could see where he had to apply the makeup, he removed the soft sponge from its center location and gently traced under his right eye. He watched as the makeup covered and concealed the darkness that lurked. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to sell the illusion that he was trying to create. Once he was satisfied with the right eye he moved to the left and did the same. Several moments later he was finished and looked more like the man he had once been.

Wilson ran his left hand across his face, feeling the rough ridges and needle-like sensation of the facial hair and frowned. He would have to shave before he left for the funeral. It would be disrespectful to show up looking like he hadn't slept in since her death and lost track of his razor - even if it was the absolute truth - Amber deserved better than that. Feeling a small chill run through his veins, he shivered and walked into the bathroom where he had left the razor. Glancing down at his wrist to check the time, he saw that he had about an hour and a half before the funeral would start. More than enough time to shave and clean up. Enough time to create a façade and conceal the fact that even though on the exterior he was calm and collected, inside an emotional war was being waged.

As he reached over the sink to turn on the faucet he saw the faint remains of an "x" etched on the webbing of his left hand. He knew that the mark was a reminder, but he couldn't quite recall what it was reminding him of. Shaking it off, he turned the handle and allowed the warm water to rush out over his hand. Closing his eyes for a brief moment to collect his thoughts and afford the heat from the water to create steam, Wilson remembered what the mark was a reminder of. He had been asked, or in this case demanded in a loving tone, to check in with Cuddy before he left for the funeral. He would do that once he had shaved and was feeling something close to his former self.

Once the heat from the steam alerted Wilson that it was time to begin, he brought the razor to his face. He knew that he should have applied shaving cream before he risked cutting himself with each stroke, but he didn't care. He wanted to feel the sting of each hair being removed. He wanted to feel something, anything, that wasn't the cold feeling that had been creeping its way into him these last couple of weeks. As he drew down on the first stroke, he felt the sharpness of the blades against his soft flesh and cringed with each hair that was removed. Bracing himself for the second stroke, he knew what to expect, and wasn't as frightened by the sensation. The sting remained for the duration, but with each successful stroke he felt less and less of the sensation he had created the first time.

It wasn't long before he was finished. Using his right hand to make sure there wasn't anything left, he was satisfied as he inched across his chin and down his throat. He rested his hands on the edge of the sink for a moment before wiping clean the mirror to make sure he was finished. Upon clearing the mirror he saw that the stranger than had once occupied the visage had been replaced by the familiar and almost effeminate James Wilson. He was - more or less - returned to the man that Amber had fallen in love with, House called his friend, and Cuddy had known as her silent confidant. There wasn't much more he could do except wear a faint smile and hold the emotional thunderstorm at bay.

Wilson walked back into the bedroom and removed his dress coat from the far end of the bed. Glancing over at the closet door he saw the trench coat he often wore to the hospital hanging on the door handle. He was taken in by how the small handle was able to support the weight of the coat and his mind drifted to his relationship with Amber. She had often been the one to support his weight, drag him along, and ask him to look at himself and describe what he saw. He felt a pang of heartache wash over him, but instead of fighting it back he allowed it to consume him for a moment. A small voice in the back of his mind reminded him that denial was the first stage of Grief, but he could have cared less.

As he brought the dress coat around, he remembered that he hadn't finished doing his tie. He wanted to leave it as it was, but he knew that Amber, had she been alive, wouldn't have tolerate such behavior. Swallowing the emotional tidal wave that was about to wash him ashore in his mind, he fixed the tie and brought the dress coat the last bit over to complete his look. Moving back over to the closet door, he removed the trench coat. He knew that he might not need it, but something deep inside of him wouldn't allow him to leave it. Taking a long breath, holding the oxygen in longer than he normally would have, Wilson reached into his breast pocket of the dress coat and removed his cell. Looking down with enough trepidation to cause his hands to shake, he opened his contacts list and scrolled down to Cuddy's number. A moment later he brought the cell to his ear and listened as the other line rang.

"Cuddy," the female voice on the other end of the line answered, "I'm almost done with the requisitions at the hospital. I shouldn't be too long." she continued. Wilson was taken aback for a moment before he realized that she didn't know who was on the other end of the line.

"Lisa," he started, "it's me. I was calling because you had asked me to. Before I left for the funeral?" he continued, "I could care less about the requisitions that are on your desk right now." he said feeling a tinge of anger building inside of him. He was never that short with her and he was afraid that she might have taken it the wrong way. "I'm sorry, Lisa." he said in a desperate attempt to cover his ass. He wasn't sure if it mattered or not, but he was satisfied having made an attempt to repair the damage done.

"Oh," she said reflexively, "I'm incredibly sorry about that, James. I didn't realize it was you. I thought you were, uh, someone else." she continued. Wilson could sense that she was attempting damage control from something that House had done. He knew that it would be a bad idea to press the issue too far, but his curious nature wouldn't allow him to let it hang.

"I know it isn't something I should be concerning myself with right now," he asked testing the water, "but what did House do this time? He hasn't killed someone has he?" he asked. There was a long lull in the conversation. Wilson knew that she was searching for the right answer, something that would leave him at ease about the situation.

"He was being the same brash, over zealous, narcissistic bastard that we both know and love," she offered, "but to offer an answer, no he didn't kill someone. Though, this is one of those times when I wish he had. It would be easier to control and deal with." she said letting out a long sigh. Wilson could hear the exhaustion in her voice and was starting to feel like he was pressing the wrong buttons. "But this isn't your fight, James."

"I know," he replied dully, "I don't want to be short here, but was there a reason you wanted me to call you before I left or not?" he asked. There was a tinge of anger in his tone, but he didn't care. He knew that she would understand. He wanted to believe that she would understand. "I don't have a lot of time and I'm about to walk out the door," he continued, "so if there's something that you're looking to find out or say now is the time." he said with a finality that shocked even him. Had he really become this despondent?

"Just wanted you to know that there are those of us who do care, James. You're not alone," she offered, "and even though you might feel like you alone I want you to know that I'm here." she continued. Wilson could feel the emotions churn within himself, but he couldn't allow them to break through a second time. Cuddy was making an honest attempt to be a friend.

"Thank you," he offered," I'll be seeing you at the funeral." he said. He waited another moment for her to say something else, silently counting the seconds until it would be safe to end the call. There was nothing except a bitter silence on the other end of the line. Without much thought beyond what was said, Wilson ended the call. Letting the air out of his lungs, Wilson walked out of the bedroom and listened as the door closed behind him.

As he left the apartment he knew that it would be a few hours before he would return. He took a moment to consider locking the door or leaving it as it was, but he knew the kind of neighborhood he was in and wasn't about to risk it. Listening as the key turned in the lock, he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. Throwing himself to the side, he vomited into the bush next to the stairs. He tried to avoid looking down at what had exalted from his stomach, but he couldn't help it. He was entranced at the brown-red hues splashed across the bushes. There was something poetic about the feeling of release. Shaking it off, he reached into his trench coat's pocket to make sure it was still in there and let out a sigh of relief as his hand came across the shape of the bottle.

The drive to the funeral was one that Wilson could have never expected. He found himself flooded with memories of his life with Amber, each location that had been a set in their life together casting another shadow, each one becoming more painful than the one before it, each one another reminder of what he had lost along the way. The small coffee shop where he had asked her out, the Princeton-Plainsboro Park where the two of them shared their first ice cream, the mattress store where he had made the mistake of buying the mattress she wanted and not one he wanted, every wonderful moment spent with her came flooding back to him, and each one held a darker tone than the one before. Would he ever be able to look at those stores the same? Behold the memories the same?

Wilson could feel himself becoming anxious with each passing moment, but he wanted to maintain control over himself. He would have allowed himself the chance to fall apart on the drive to the funeral, alone, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to compose himself at the funeral if he had. He knew that it would require a strength from within that he did not possess to bring himself back in time. He was three miles out from the cemetery where Amber was being interred when he felt the tidal waves becoming stronger. Reaching into his pocket he groped for the bottle, knowing that the assurance that it was still there might be enough, but he knew before he found it that he was wrong.

Grasping at the round bottle Wilson fought with himself. He knew that he had been becoming dependent on the Valium, almost as dependent as House was on his Vicodin, and that was a road that he wasn't interested in walking down. Wilson swallowed the lump in his throat as he removed the bottle from his coat and rested it on the dash of the car. He would drive the last few miles to the funeral and see where he was when he arrived. If he was still feeling the crushing weight on his shoulders he would allow himself to take one or two, but if he was able to control his emotions he would leave the bottle in the car. Out of sight, out of mind. He couldn't allow himself to become like House was.

As he approached the parking lot of the cemetery he felt another wave of nausea come over him. This time, however, he fought back the pressure that was building in his throat and leaned back in the seat. Glancing around he saw that he was the first to arrive. This afforded him to chance to medicate, if needed, without revealing or having to explain to those around him what was going on. No one had known, except Amber, and she had been an advocate of leaving the bottle home and facing the anxiety without medication. Taking a moment to collect himself, to brace himself, to allocate his emotions, he knew. He knew that he wasn't strong enough to do it alone. Amber would have to deal with him being medicated during her funeral. He took a deep breath and reached across the dash.

Checking once more to make sure that no one was around, Wilson removed the cap on the bottle and watched as three round foreign objects fell in his hand. He looked around the car to see if he had a bottle of water with him, but soon realized that his search was futile. He would have to take them straight. Taking a deep, long breath, he brought his hand to his mouth. Seconds later he felt the Valium land on his tongue and with a swift swallowing gesture Wilson drew the pills down his throat. There was a moment of discomfort that was followed by another wave of nausea, but he was able to fight it back. He would, in a few minutes, be able to face the crushing guilt, anger, and betrayal that awaited him.


	2. A Different Kind of Pain

Chapter Two:  
A Different Kind of Pain

"_**In my dreams I'm dying all the time, as I wake it's kaleidoscopic mind…"- Moby, "Porcelain"**_

The room was silent except for the constant hum of the machines, acting almost as the errant heartbeat in the absence of his own, filling the room with the illusion of comfort. Wilson had been around death his entire medical career, but nothing he had experienced could have informed him of the helplessness that he would be feeling once he had suffered a reversal of roles. Fate, it would seem, was a capricious nymph who didn't care that James Wilson had saved thousands of lives, allowed the dying to come to terms with their illness, or the countless hours he had spent dwelling on situations that weren't his own.

None of this held the currency that would be required to alleviate the pangs of melancholia coursing through his soul. Looking down at Amber he could see that she had expired. All that was left was a hollow shell, a momento mori, resting next to him in the clinical bed. Wilson could feel the wellspring of emotions building from within, but no matter how desperate he attempted, he discovered that he couldn't bring himself to tears. Taking in a deep breath, he held it in his chest for a moment, before exhaling. After a moment he was rewarded for his effort when a single tear ran down his cheek.

"Amber," he whispered softly to the revenant beside him. "I'm sorry. I failed you." he continued. All he wanted was to be left alone, to wallow in his mistakes, to become consumed by his own grief. He listened, waiting to hear the familiar sound of the Intensive Care Unit doors opening, but it remained silent. Drawing closer to Amber's cold body, he removed his dress coat and wrapped it around her to keep her warm. He didn't care if it was futile.

It was the sound of fingers rapping on his window that brought Wilson back to reality, the cold comfort of knowing it wasn't real, but a bitter reminder of his inherent loneliness. Wilson blinked several times to create a sluice in his eyes and remove some of the redness that had been slowly working its way in since Amber's passing. He knew that he wouldn't be able to conceal the lack of sleep, but at least this would make it less suspicious. Taking one final look in the rearview mirror he could see that the irritation had subsided. Satisfied he climbed out of the car.

As he climbed out of the car he could feel his legs becoming weak. He continued on, however, fighting the need to cave and return to the car. He knew that the act would alert those around him that he wasn't handling Amber's death as well as he was attempting to convey. It would be the fissure in his façade that would, in the end, be the strand that allowed the entire yarn to become unraveled. Taking a deep breath, Wilson felt the muscles in his fingers and legs becoming taut.

Shaking it off he continued out of the vehicle and reminded himself that this wasn't what she would have wanted from him. She would often become livid when he caved or followed along with what those around he wanted to do and didn't speak for himself. He had vowed that he would honor her memory by being more vocal about what he wanted, how he was feeling, and not giving in to the crippling effects of emotional distress that had consumed him.

There was a moment of brief apprehension as Wilson closed the car door and came face-to-face with who had awakened him from his Orpheum dream. He was met by the delicate features of Dr. Remy Hadley. There was an expression of deep concern etched across her youthful visage making her seem older than her years. Wilson offered a weak smile; one that he knew wouldn't fool a blind man, and listened as the soft locking sound of the car door. Thirteen returned the smile, saying nothing, almost a stoic sage, as she extended her hand out to offer Wilson a small charm.

Wilson reached out and removed the small charm from Thirteen's waif-like hand. There was a moment of silence as Wilson ran his thumb over the charm and studied it. He had never seen anything quite like it, but there was a strange quality about it that felt eminent. "It's called a Milagro," Thirteen offered the confounded Wilson, "it's Spanish - means 'miracle' - and it's often used in devotions; this one is a heart," she continued as Wilson nodded, "I felt like it was something that reminded me of you and Amber." she finished with a faint smile.

"I don't know what to say," Wilson said running his thumb over the raised heart, "thank you. I wasn't expecting something like this," he continued looking down at the charm to avoid eye contact, "I'll be sure this makes it to her headstone. That is where I would leave it, right?" he asked. His mind flashed back to a Mexican couple that he had taken care of years before. The woman, Maria Gonzales, had suffered from terminal breast cancer and when she passed her husband, Luis, had asked him to leave a small charm much like the one in his hand on her headstone.

"I'm not sure," Thirteen replied biting her lower lip tensely, "I think so? All I know is it's a kind of memento." she continued. Wilson watched as she nodded to herself and shifted her weight. He could tell that she was becoming uncomfortable, and he couldn't blame her. There was an intense weight in the air which only complicated the interaction. "I'll be around if you, um, need to talk?" she choked out finally. Wilson was half expecting the offer of solace, but there seemed to be sincerity to her tone that cemented his ability to trust in her.

Wilson was about to thank her for the milagro when he heard the faint indicators that the rest of the procession was arriving. Thirteen took a long breath and nodded. She shifted her weight and looked over to where the hearse had arrived. "We should be heading over there," Wilson offered weakly, "and thank you for everything, Remy. It's nice to know that there are those I can trust in." he offered walking beyond her. She blinked a few times and followed behind him.

As Wilson walked from his car, and where Thirteen had shown an unexpected interest in him, he allowed his mind to drift. He knew that he would need time to be alone, a chance to distance himself from House, and explore the emotional tidal wave that was crashing on the shore of his consciousness. He would also have to deal with the mothering that he would receive from his confidante once she arrived; which would include explaining to her the reason there was no wake or service held in Amber's honor, something that Amber had made clear to him in her final hours. He was aware of the complications that were lurking on the borderline of this exact moment in time and the following moment.

There was also the palisade that would be cultivated between himself and House to contend with. Part of him wanted to take every ounce of hatred that was brewing within and direct it at House. A wise man had once said that it was foolish to blame no one and cowardice to blame the all of those around you, so it would be sensible to rest the blame firm upon House's shoulder. Had he not been drinking that evening and been alone this could have been avoided. Amber would be alive and Wilson wouldn't be walking among the departed souls of those had come before him. He would be _happy_.

Still, there was a part of him that knew that it was as much his own fault as it was House's fault. If he wasn't on-call he would have been there to answer the call. She might have come along, but neither of them would have been on a bus and, by extension, wouldn't have been hit by the garbage truck that started the nightmare that he was now living. As he continued along the winding rows of headstones and monuments, each another reminder of his own loss, he understood that despite the blame he was resting upon House he was equally guilty. He was also the reason House was in the condition that he was in.

As he approached where the funeral was to be held, he noticed that there was a collection of shapes and figures surrounding the silver and mahogany casket that he had chosen for her. Drawing closer he was able to distinguish the order in the chaos. He saw that most of House's team had shown up, including Cameron and Chase, who were standing off to the far right under one of the massive oak trees that littered the cemetery. In the distance Wilson caught the outline of a lone man leaning against another tree. Wilson believed for a moment that the man might have been his former friend, but if it was he wasn't interested in researching the situation further.

There was a slight breeze as he reached his destination. There was a sense of absolute dolor that hung in the air; creeping through each member of the cast of character in the fallacy Wilson reluctantly called his "life". Glancing across the group to his left he caught sight of Cuddy, standing alone wearing an expression of morosity across her ethereal features, which elicited a frown from Wilson. He let out a soft sigh as he watched Thirteen leave his side. He knew that once the interment began that he would have to assimilate with the rest of the group, he wanted to take a moment for himself to say his final goodbye.

Gathering all of the strength he could muster, he moved closer to the casket and rested his hand upon the lid. Wilson could feel his fingers becoming tense and his muscles contracting making it difficult to remain. He could feel the electric shock shoot through him and watched as his fingers trembled across the casket's lid. There was a rhythmic rapping that reported silently out in the cemetery. Taking a quick stock of those around him, he saw that no one had noticed the outburst and felt a wave of relief wash over him.

As he was about to leave, there he felt someone's hand rest upon his shoulder. Out of reflex he reached across his shoulder to meet the hand. "James," she whispered from behind him, "are you going to be able to do this?" she asked. For a moment he was taken aback by the inquiry. The question was innocent, but something about her tone indicated to him that she _knew_. She _understood_ how he was feeling. There was something about the method she had used to ask it that informed his response to her.

"I don't know," he whispered softly, "I honestly don't know if I can do this, Lisa. I have to be strong, though. She wouldn't have wanted me to back out now." he continued. He wanted to recant what he had said moments before, but he knew that it was too late for that. He knew that once he had allowed her to see beyond the façade that it would be of no use to lie. If there was one thing that Cuddy was an expert at it was in the field of emotional response.

"You know that I am available if you need to talk," she asked, "right? I'm not making this offer because I feel bad about this, I'm doing it because I care." she continued moving her hand off his shoulder and withdrawing. Wilson listened to the soft click of her heels against the small rock that littered the burial area.

Wilson continued to stare down at the casket, nodding to himself, feeling the paralyzing sensation that comes along with the realization that this would be the final chance he would have to see her. One final chance to show how much he truly cared about her by following the time honored rituals used to inter the deceased. One final chance to accept that there was nothing that he could have done; nothing that House could have done; nothing that Cuddy could have done; nothing that any of them could have done to save her. That this was meant to be.

It wasn't long before the minister arrived and Wilson retired to the congregation of friends and family. Looking around the minister took a count of the congress. Wilson followed his example and took one final pass to see if there were any errant visitors arriving. Once he was satisfied that no one else was lingering out of sight and came to accept that House wouldn't be making an appearance, he motioned to the minister to begin the ceremony. As the man started to speak, Wilson could feel his stomach twist in knots. He knew that it wouldn't be a long ceremony, as no one had offered to recite a eulogy, but he could already feel each passing second becoming longer with each syllable.

Almost as if it was out of reflex, he reached across the chasm spread between himself and Cuddy and laced his fingers between her own fingers. For a moment she didn't respond, as if she was as confused by the notion as he was, but after a long break she finally crossed the chasm and locked her fingers with his. A sense of relief washed over him. Part of him wanted her to comfort him in his time of need, console him as she might House, mother him, but he knew in his heart that this was not the case. The reason was feeling these estranged emotions was because was a defensive mechanism. Even though he it wasn't real, it didn't dull the emotional connection he was feeling towards her.

Wilson wasn't sure how much time had vanished, but what he understood was that it hadn't been long. The rest of the group was following the societal rituals of resting a single rose upon the casket, saying their final goodbyes, and moving on. Wilson felt Cuddy's hand slip from his and with it his sense of comfort. He watched as she walked to the casket, resting her hand upon it, whispering something, and returning to Wilson. Knowing that he was next, he started his trek to the casket. Stopping between where he was standing and where the casket was, he removed a handful of soil. He was unsure the significance of such an arbitrary action, but he felt compelled to follow through.

"Ashes to ashes," he whispered softly to the casket, "and dust to dust." he resigned. He motioned for the attendant to lower the casket. He watched as she was lowered down and felt his heart sink with her. He knew, intellectually, that this was a method of solace and comfort, but inside he could feel his emotions clawing their way out of the box he had, as a pre-requisite, locked them down in. He was amazed at how little time and effort it required to lower the casket in the cold earth. Looking back to the attendant who was nodding to him to release the soil, he found that he couldn't. He knelt down and watched as he lost control of his hand and the soil began to escape through the cracks in his fingers. "Goodbye." he said silently.

"James," her voice echoed through his mind like a ricochet, "I'm heading over to Starbucks for a mocha, come with me?" she asked. He knew that she was offering to talk to him as a friend, but his erratic mind wouldn't let him hear it as such. It came out as something more than what she meant it to be. "I could use the company and I'm pretty sure you could as well."

"I would love to," he offered standing up, "I need a moment to find myself. This is all a lot to take in." he replied. He watched as she nodded. There was a strange sense of acceptance that he could feel battling back the nausea. Wilson shoved his hands in his coat and looked down. "I need a moment," he said aloud, "I have something to take care of - alone - if that's okay?" he asked. He knew that he had no reason to ask, but in his state of mind everything felt like a hanging question mark.

"I'll be over at the car," she replied gently, "waiting. Just let me know when you're ready." she finished. Wilson could taste the sweetness in her language, and in that singular moment, he knew that she was a true friend. Wilson watched as she left for the car and as the others turned theirs over and left.

Reaching in his coat he removed the milagro charm Thirteen had offered him. He didn't understand the meaning behind it, or believe in what it represented, but he appreciated the thought she had afforded it. Taking a deep breath, he maneuvered around the open grave and rested the charm on the edge of the headstone. "The rising sun shall always speak your name." he said to the headstone. Feeling another tear roll down his cheek, he climbed to his feet.

Without looking back he walked to where his car was located. Glancing over he saw that Cuddy was on a call, most likely with House, which offered him time to retrieve the bottle he had left in the dash. Careful to avoid alerting his confidante, he climbed in the car, opened the dash, removed the bottle, and rested it in his coat. She had no need to know of his condition, but the thought of leaving them where he couldn't reach them in a time of need was aberrant. He could duck in the bathroom if he needed to, swallow a few, and be back on track.

"Listen, I have something that I need to take care. I'll check back in later," she said into the cell as Wilson drew closer, "I'll call later." she said closing the cell. Wilson rested his arms on the roof of the car and offered her a weak smile. "Ready?" she asked. For a fleeting second he believed that he saw a sparkle in her eye, but he reminded himself that it was his emotional distress speaking.


	3. Moving Forward In Reverse

Chapter Three:  
Moving Forward In Reverse

"_**The only thing I'll ever ask of you, got to promise not to stop when I say when…" -Foo Fighters, "Everlong"**_

The ride from the cemetery was uncharacteristically silent. There was the occasional hushed small talk or the jittery sigh, but beyond the casual amenities it remained a solemn drive. It was an atypical occasion when he didn't have something to talk say, to offer, but Wilson had no idea what one would speak of in the situation he found himself in. He understood the reasons behind his actions, the logic that defined the gestures, and while this offered him a trifling placation it still unhinged him. It brought back feelings that he believed he had buried long ago.

Wilson knew that he would have to speak about what occurred in the cemetery, eventually. He knew that she might allow it to linger, given his emotional state, but sooner or later she would confront him about it. He would like to have the luxury of time, but he knew that it was best to face the feelings head on. It was one of the few life lessons his father had taught him before he succumbed to the disease he spent much of the second half of his life combating. Letting out a long breath of air, Wilson recomposed himself and relegated the memories of his father to the back of his mind. There was enough on his mind as it was - he didn't need to tack the stress of his father's passing on to that list - and he knew that he would be performing on emotional tightrope with Cuddy shortly.

He had become so consumed with his own thoughts and reminiscences that he hadn't noticed that they had reached their destination. "James," she said as she moved the shifter and unbuckled her seatbelt, "we're here." There was a lull as he stared out the window, feeling the weight of his emotional distress crushing down on his spirit. "James, are you feeling alright?" she asked again. Wilson could feel his right hand convulsing. "James?" she asked a second time.

"Yeah," he managed, "I'm doing fine. Just lost in thought is all," Wilson said moving his left hand over his right to conceal the tremor, "I'm not used to this kind of thing. You might have to excuse me." he finished. Cuddy nodded and climbed out of the car. Wilson, drawing in as much air as he could manage to fill his lungs with, exhaled and followed her lead. After a moment he was able to recuperate from the quivering and closed the car door, following Cuddy into the café.

Once inside Wilson was enraptured. There was something incredibly calming about the café, something that emanated comfort. The scent of hundreds of flavors of java filled the air, each more succulent than the last, each inducing another wave of calm and serenity. The faint sound of Imogen Heap floated through the speakers, offering something that few establishments of the like could boast. It didn't take much for him to understand the reason that she had selected this Starbucks and not the one close to the hospital; it was far enough that there wouldn't be the constant reminder that the two of them were doctors, the rushing ambulances and sirens, and it was about as serene as one could find without incense and yoga.

Wilson wasn't expecting the kind of service they received from the soft faced young woman who welcomed them to the café and lead them to their seat. He had been in hundreds of Starbucks around the country, but never one as lavish as this. "I'll be back in a moment for your orders." the waitress said with a munificent smile. Wilson offered her a weak smile back. Cuddy removed her coat and rested it on the back of the chair and looked tenaciously at Wilson. He knew that she would be seeking answers, but was there more as a friend than an enemy.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly. There was a sense of absolute interest in her tone that Wilson hadn't been expecting. "You didn't seem to be doing too well at the funeral," she continued shifting her weight in the chair, "and as your friend I'm worried about you." she finished, smiling gently.

Wilson didn't know quite how to respond without betraying the confidence he had built around himself hours before. He would have to tear down the walls he had so assiduously constructed to keep others out. "I'm having some trouble talking about this," he said softer than he had expected to, "but I'm making an effort. I need time, Lisa. I don't know how much more of this I can handle." he offered. He knew that it wouldn't be enough to slake her curiosity, but it would be enough to allow him a chance to test the waters with her.

Cuddy leaned back and was about to speak when she was cut off by the return of the youthful waitress, "I can take your order now?" she replied. Wilson found that he had to reflect upon the choices for a moment while Cuddy knew what she was would like. "Sir?" the waitress inquired as Wilson mulled over the options. After a long lull in the conversation he finally made his choice. "I should be back with the macchiato in a few minutes, the chai latte will take a bit longer, is that alright?" she inquired of Wilson. He nodded and the waitress left to retrieve their drinks.

"James, that's the exact reason I asked you to come along with me," she confided, "I don't want to sound selfish here, but I was having a lot of trouble there, too. You're not alone in this." she continued. Wilson could hear the conviction her tone and knew that she wasn't lying to him. "I might not have been as close to Amber as you were, but this affected me as well. Let's face it," she said leaning closer now, "it affected all of us - House included." she finished. Wilson looked down at the table and traced the outlines in the wood's design.

"I know it affected House," he said leveling his voice to obscure his anger, "he would never have gone as far as he had if it wasn't important to him. You know that as well as I do. His obsession with it went beyond his normal defiance and, shall we call it something, enthusiasm to solve the mystery," he continued feeling himself becoming more intense with each passing second, "but I don't know. I don't even know how it affects you because no one really cared for her. House used to call her Cutthroat Bitch for Christ's sake, Lisa!" he shouted losing control. Cuddy's expression was of a woman affronted.

"James, you might want to lower the volume a bit," she said looking around, "we are in a Starbucks." she continued. Wilson nodded and leaned back in his seat. "But I do understand what you're saying. House is an asshole, let's face it. He's called both of us things I won't dare repeat here," she offered, "hell, he once told me that I should be happy that I wasn't a mother because I couldn't handle dealing with a child that wasn't even my own." she replied. Wilson watched as the faint evidence of tears welled beneath her eyes. Reacting, instead of thinking it through, he reached his hand across the table and rested on her own.

"You're right," he offered, "but I still don't see how it demonstrates that he cares about you or me, Lisa. It shows how much of a self righteous asshole he is." Wilson replied feeling himself calming down as he spoke. He knew that she was right, that House was an abrasive asshole, but there was still something lurking beyond that, under the cold steel blue eyes, beyond the abusive remarks. House, being a social outcast, often had his own methods of showing that he cared. "Look, I know what you're trying to do and I appreciate it, but I need time. I need to be away from all of this. I need to a change of scenery." he said before he could stop himself.

"You're macchiato and chai latte are ready," the young woman interjected, "and I will be back in a few minutes to check on you two. Enjoy." she said leaving. Wilson slid her macchiato across the table to her and drew his chai close. He could feel the heat emanating from the styrofoam cup. He watched as Cuddy blew the steam from her macchiato and let out a long sigh. The waitress went back to the counter, Wilson noticed, and smiled to him. He blew it off as a sympathetic compliment, seeing as how he was broadcasting loneliness.

"Take all the time you need," she said taking a sip from the macchiato, "but do me a favor. I have a friend, an old friend from medical school, who is a therapist. She's in upstate New York," she continued writing something down on a scrap of paper, "her name is Dr. Andrea Scanlon." she said moving the scrap of paper across the table to Wilson. He looked down and noticed that she had written her name and number on the scrap.

"I'm not making any promises," Wilson replied taking the information, "but I will think about it. I don't know what I'm doing yet, but what I do know is that I need to spend some time alone." he reinforced. He watched as she continued to drink her macchiato, searching for something to respond with. He knew that she meant well, but the thought of seeing a therapist seemed a bit extreme. Still, it wouldn't be a bad idea. He often suggested that those who had recently lost a loved one speak to a therapist. Keeping the option open, he folded the note and rested it inside his coat where he could find it if he decided to call on her.

"All I'm asking is that you consider it, James," she said softly, "unlike House I won't blackmail you." she continued. Wilson knew that she was right. House had gone to extremes for him in an attempt to save Amber's life, but there was still the lingering fact that he had spent the last twenty three years of their friendship pushing limits. "Speaking of House, have you spoken to him since she died?" she asked.

"No," he said without hesitation, "we haven't spoken since I lost Amber." he said. He knew that she was fishing for something now, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. "I don't have anything left to talk about with him. I could fucking care less about what he has to say, to be honest." Wilson continued. He knew that it was a harsh thing to say about the man he had called his best-friend for so long, but he was done being ambiguous.

Wilson knew that he was being more detached than he should have been with her, but there wasn't much left he had to talk about. He knew if the conversation continued much longer than she would segue into the reactions at the cemetery, and the more he thought about it the more he felt like it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. He had an innate understanding that she had known how he felt for a long time now and that this was an emotional response, not a strange method of confession to his feelings for her.

"I know how you're feeling," she replied taking another hit from her macchiato, "but you can't blame him for her death." she told him. It was starting to feel like she was trying to mother him. "He risked his life for her; for you." she continued to enforce the issue on him. He wanted to scream, but he knew that it would only create a chasm between them and he needed all the support he could find at the moment.

"I know what he risked," he replied with tinge of disdain, "but I can't do this right now. I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon," he continued unsure of how he had come to that decision, "I'll stop at the hospital and take care of some of the paperwork for an administrative leave." Wilson said standing up. There was a look of absolute desperation painted across Cuddy's face. He was torn between staying a bit longer and leaving to clear his mind. "I need a ride back to the cemetery to collect my car." he replied, almost in a whisper.

Wilson had expected the ride back to the cemetery to be one long list of reasons that he shouldn't leave or an excuse to lift the burden of blame from House, but it wasn't. He was astounded at the silence that filled the vehicle. There was only the rhythmic lullaby written by the thoroughfare beneath them. Part of him was relieved, having expected to have to listen to Cuddy's rationalizations and excuses to remain around, but still yet there was a small blemish in his soul that wanted her to bereave him.

He was about to speak when he noticed on the horizon the cemetery. Glancing over to the woman next to him he felt, for a brief moment, that he was in the company of a stranger. Cuddy was kind of woman who had something to say about everything, but here she was silent. He couldn't tell if it was because he had been abrupt with her, offended her, or some reason beyond his meager understanding. "We're here." she said flatly.

"Lisa, I didn't mean to be so offensive back there," he said trying to smooth things over with her, "but I need some time. This is all a lot to take in and it's coming at me from all sides…" he said, his voice starting to trail off as she stopped the car next to his own. "Thank you for the chai latte and conversation." he offered. He watched as a small smile cracked across her lips. It wasn't much, but it was enough to console his bruised sense of friendship.

"Just think about what I said," she replied, "and call Andrea. She's a friend and I know that she won't screw with you. She's about as honest as House and as kind as I am." she continued. Wilson nodded to indicate that he understood her assessment. "And if you still need someone to talk to I'm free. I can make time to talk to you, if need be." she reached across the seat to him. Wilson felt himself reach across and meet her halfway.

"Again, I can't thank you enough for what you're doing," he said climbing out of the car, "and I should be around after lunch - would you like to do lunch with me tomorrow? One final lunch before I leave for awhile?" he asked, feeling himself becoming tense. She continued to smile back and nodded. Wilson nodded softly and climbed the rest of the way out of the car and began walking back to his own, unsure if he would be able to keep the appointment he made with Cuddy to have lunch with her.


	4. Running Blind

Chapter Four:  
Running Blind

"_**Running through a field where all my tracks will be concealed and there's nowhere to go…" - The Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Snow" (Hey Oh)**_

"Well, that's one way of fucking up a beautiful friendship." Wilson said aloud as he tried to turn his vehicle over. As he moved the shifter he allowed his mind to drift back to his encounter with Cuddy in the café. She was trying to help him, to offer him a chance to talk, and in realizing that she might not be able to coax it out of him, she had offered him the number to a friend he could express himself with and not feel confined. She was doing everything he would have done in the same situation and he had taken her offering and shut down - in essence locking her out - all of this after he had sought her soothing embrace. He was becoming more and more like House with each passing moment.

Brushing these aberrant thoughts from his mind, Wilson struggled to think of something - anything - else. He knew that Amber wouldn't have wanted him to dwell on her death, let alone harbor misconceptions about his relationship with Cuddy, but the sense that he had inadvertently affronted her continued to linger. He wouldn't allow the distance to float between the two of them for too long, but he knew that it would ostentatious to call her sooner rather than later. He would allow himself a bit longer, time to mull it over, before he would make that call. It was often distance and time that allowed for healing between friends and while he understood this wasn't the end of their friendship, he knew that it was the transition from one level to another.

Shifting his weight in the driver seat, he felt the bottle resting in his pocket shift with him. He felt himself becoming tense once again. Reaching down he groped for the bottle, but stopped himself before he could withdraw it. "Amber wouldn't have wanted this," he said to himself, "she wouldn't have tolerated this kind of shit, James." he told himself. Checking the dash clock he saw that it had been less than two and a half hours since he had last taken the Valium. As a doctor he was aware that if he continued to take it he would run the risk of overdose or coma. "Later," he resolved, "if I'm still feeling like this I'll take another few later. Yeah…" he continued, his voice trailing off.

Pulling up to the stop light he let out a long sigh. Glancing around, as he often found himself doing when confronted with a stop light, he saw the local Barnes and Noble was less than a mile ahead. His mind flashed to the hundreds of somber family members he had directed to the local bookstore, offering a list of self-help books, and recommendations he had made to help them overcome the recent loss of their loved ones. Wilson felt himself drawn to the idea of allowing someone else telling him how to deal with his misery. He had spent most of his life being the "should to cry upon," "receptive friend," and "the kindly doctor." He didn't believe that it was too much to ask to be on the other side of the couch, to be consoled instead of being the consoler. He found himself once again thinking of Cuddy and how she had tried to be the consoler and he had thrown it back in her face.

The light switched and Wilson lurched forward. Behind him he could hear the cacophony of profanity and other drivers becoming increasingly agitated with him. He wanted to do what most Jersey natives would have done in his situation, but it wouldn't have done much to resolve his trepidation. Continuing along, he soon found himself flicking the blinker on his wheel and turning into the parking lot of the Barnes and Noble. He shifted the knob as he stopped in the parking space and leaned back in the seat. Reaching down in his pocket he fumbled with the bottle, running his hand over it, and reflexively removing it.

Looking down at the bottle of Valium he felt himself becoming tranquil. Moving his hand across the bottle he examined it, reading his name written on the bottle, his doctor's name, and that he should take two each morning and before bed. It had been a difficult choice to make, but one that he had come to accept. As he started to untwist the cap, he heard Amber's voice scolding him for being weak, giving in to his depression, and accepting defeat. Taking heed of what he took to be the Voice of Reason he often shoved down, he rested the bottle on the dash of the car and unbuckled his belt.

As he climbed out of the car he felt his cell vibrating. Reaching into his breast pocket, he removed his cell and bit his lower lip. The name on the screen read "House." Wilson debated answering the call, however, decided that it would be better if he let it reach his voicemail and deal with it later. He had enough agitating him as it was, he didn't need to have House berating him for being an idiot. Moments later the cell vibrated a second time, this time informing him that House had left him a message. Looking down at the cell, he tossed it into the car and shut the door. He was James Wilson right now, not Dr. James Wilson Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Feeling an aura of release that had eluded him for so long Wilson walked into the Barnes and Noble with a calm and collected sense of being. He was free from the amalgamation of stress conspiring to break him down. He was nothing more than a simple man; something that he had lost along the way to becoming the complicated man that he was. Taking a deep breath, he swung open the ornate double doors and crossed the threshold of the Barnes and Noble. He was taking the first steps in his journey of self discovery.

Upon walking in he discovered that he was flooded with hundreds of options, choices abound, and realized that he didn't know what he was looking for. He intrinsically understood that what he needed, but as his eyes continued to take in the thousands of books before him he became lost in an ocean of choice. For a moment he found himself overwhelmed, consumed even, with the prospect of having to locate something to help him cope with his loss. Shifting his weight he took a long breath and scanned the aisles for someone who might be able to assist him in his conquest.

Moving with an absolute sense of unease and confusion, Wilson found himself drawn to the Michael Crichton section. Collected before him on the mahogany shelf the selections of novels were laid out before him. Tilting his head to the left to read the titles he saw all of the classics: _Jurassic Park_, _Congo_, _The Andromeda Strain_, and _Timeline_. Each was a classic and each one he had, at one time or another, read from cover to cover with an enjoyment he rarely found in most fiction writers. Continuing down the line, he saw that Crichton had written more since he had finished reading the magnificent _State of Fear_.

Each of the new titles had the same boast of action and adventure infused with cutting edge bio-medical technology run amok, however, in his current emotional tumultuous state of mind he knew that this wasn't what he was looking for - he was looking for something a bit more introverted and psychological. This was when out of the corner of his eye he spotted the one Michael Crichton novel he had never read before: _Sphere_. As he reached out for the novel, he felt himself becoming more and more drawn to it.

Fascinated, he turned the novel over and scanned the description. As he read about the storyline of the novel he felt a bolt of electricity shoot down his spine. It was as if he was reading about himself, if he had been asked by the government to investigate a strange sphere located at the bottom of the ocean, and he found himself even more entranced with the novel. Wilson found himself checking the self before him, noticing the gap that he had created in taking the novel from it's resting spot, and saw a clear metaphor of his life emerging. The trite lives often lead by the protagonists of the novels brought - often unwillingly - into a situation much beyond their control and forced to overcome the dangerous nature of tech and science spinning wildly out of control. Looking closer, he realized that what he was seeing wasn't so much about the novels as it was the actual location those novels occupied.

His life was like the shelf on which the novel had been resting; a life that had been lived and was dense with knowledge, adventure, and friendship, yet in the center of it all something was missing. The longer he focused on the shelf and the collection of novels, the more he was drawn to the gap, the absence that had been created by the removal of a single novel, a single unexpected event that, in the flow of vivacity, was unanticipated and left the visage incomplete. "Sir, are you looking for something?" came a youthful female voice. Wilson felt himself become tense and spun on his heel to see a young redhead smiling at him.

"Oh," he stuttered, "I was looking over your wonderful selection of Michael Crichton novels." he managed to choke out. The young woman smiled at him. Wilson felt himself becoming lax and allowed the breath he was holding to liberate itself. The woman nodded and offered a curt smile. Glancing down he checked to see what her name was, trying to avoid coming off like an ass, and saw that it was Evelyn. "I'm a fan of his and was looking for something I hadn't read before," he offered making small talk, "and came across this one, um, _Sphere_." he said feeling a faint smile cracking along his lips. Evelyn nodded once more, this time with a sincerity Wilson had never seen someone who spent forty hours a week slaving in retail boast.

"_Sphere_," she mused aloud, "that's the one about the craft under the ocean. I don't think I've had the chance to read it yet either, but I have seen the film. God, Dustin Hoffman was amazing in that! One of his best roles ever, if you ask me." she offered. Wilson found himself feeling at ease around Evelyn. She radiated an aura of confidence that was contagious. "Though, between you and me, I think that _Jurassic Park _and _The Lost World: Jurassic Park _were his best novels. The movies were amazing, too. Just wasn't a fan of the third. God that was a terrible movie. Ever see it?" she asked absolutely beaming.

"I can't say that I've ever seen it," Wilson replied, "but seeing as how someone of your wonderful taste didn't like it I'll have to take that into consideration next time it's on to avoid it." he said. There was enough truth in his statement that he didn't feel like he was lying to the woman, she was going well beyond what was being asked of her in talking to him, and he found himself comfortable enough with her to let her in a small bit. "Evelyn," he said looking over the novel a second time, "I have to confess that this isn't the real reason I'm here. The real reason is I was looking for the self-help section and became sidetracked and found myself in this Ocean of Crichton and couldn't resist." he replied. He watched as Evelyn shifted her weight, rested her left hand on her hip, and chewed on what he was saying. Wilson felt his heart sink, feeling like he had said too much, when she smiled to him and motioned behind him about a hundred feet.

"We have one of the best self-help selections in the state," she boasted, "is there anything specific you're interested in? I've been stocking that section for so long I'm almost an expert on the various topic." she offered. There was a tone of unadulterated desire to assist in her voice. Wilson was unsure if he could tell her the full extent of what he was looking for or if he should leave it where it was. "You don't have to share with me, but if I can be of assistance I won't share with anyone else what you share with me." she coaxed.

"When you say it like that," he replied feeling a bit less tense about it, "I lost someone close to me recently and I was looking for something about dealing with and overcoming emotional distress." Wilson confessed. Evelyn nodded, her hazel eyes full of honesty, and motioned for him to follow her. Following her lead he found himself navigating a maze of novels, comics, dictionaries, and audio books. Each one seemed to offer something new, another escape from reality, another new adventure to insinuate yourself into, but he knew that if he was to overcome this he would have to cement himself in reality. The fictional account of psychological testing by an underwater craft, while absolutely out of the realm of possibility, was more a metaphor of his life than anything else on the shelves surrounding him and the young Evelyn.

It wasn't long before Wilson and Evelyn arrived at their destination. Rotating on her heel, Evelyn came face-to-face with Wilson. "This would be where you can find everything from Dr. Phil's daft brand of self-help to the real breed of folks who are interested in helping you, the reader. I have found that the best are Dr. Sean McNamara's _Dealing With The Pain of Loss_ and Dr. Robert Stewart's _The Stoic Sage: Coping With Your Grief_, but that's me." she offered. Wilson nodded taking into consideration what she had said. "If there's anything else I can help with you can find me lurking in the Anne Rice section." she replied. Wilson faked a smile and Evelyn left him to his own devices.

Watching as she left he felt a strange sense of loss wash over him. It was rare to find someone as interested in helping as she was and even more extraordinary to establish such an ease with said someone. Casting the isolation aside, Wilson scanned the selection of titles before him. There was a sense of awe at the vast amount of pages consolidated before him as he ran his hand across the spines of the various options. Thinking back to what Evelyn had recommend, he slid his hand along until he came across _The Stoic Sage: Coping With Your Grief_. It was one of several books he often offered as a recommendation when asked, yet for some reason or another had never read beyond the description on the back of the book.

Glancing around to make sure there was no one around who might know him, he held the book out and listened as the spine cracked, indicating that this was the first time it had ever been opened. Wilson watched as a small plume of dust rose out of the book, waving his hand to clear the air, and read the obligatory list of critics praising Dr. Stewart's deft craftsmanship and ability to help others. It all read like something you would expect to hear on one of Dr. Phil's shows, but he sensed that there was sincerity in each of the critic's statements. One, written by a critic in upstate New York, stood out. "_Dr. Stewart writes with an intense and intimate understanding of the conditions of grief stemming from the experience of losing his wife at a young age."_. The review struck a chord in Wilson that brought the loss of Amber back into sharp relief.

Satisfied that this was the best option out of the immense choices before him, he rested it under his arm along with Michael Crichton's _Sphere_. He was astonished with the effortlessness he had in finding what he was looking for. The unspoken truth was, however, that when he had entered the store he had no idea what he was looking for; he only knew that he was looking for something to mollify his misery. He would still require sabbatical from Princeton- Plainsboro, however, no amount of self-help would change that. It was with that he found himself once again thinking of Cuddy and their amorous encounter. He resolved that he would discuss what had occurred at the cemetery with her when he found himself in the hospital. Right now his focus remained on paying for the books he was carrying and making it out of there without having to reveal to another clerk how he was feeling; Evelyn was a fascinating fluke.

As he walked through aisle after aisle of diverse novels ranging from romance to humor he had the strangest feeling that he was being watched. He wasn't certain of the source, whether it was another customer or one of the countless clerks, there was only the incredible sense that he was being followed. Scolding himself for being paranoid he eradicated those thoughts from his mind and continued toward the registers. Still, something was off. Taking a moment to alleviate his concerns, he spun around and scanned the aisle behind him. In the distance he saw the silhouette of a man looming just out of sight. Feeling foolish, he lurched closer. "Hello?" he said to the silhouette. There was no audible response to his inquiry.

Moments later the silhouette shifted out of view. Wilson couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity with the shape, as if he had seen it before, but he found it difficult to trace the origins of the acquaintance. Brushing the encounter from his mind he continued his trek to the register so he could check out and leave. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts; alone with his sorrow. He wanted to be alone in the apartment that he once shared with Amber, but he knew that he would never be alone with her memories still tied to everything in the apartment..

Once he reached his destination he was relieved that the clerk behind the counter was a young man in his mid-twenties. "Find everything you were looking for?" he half-heartedly inquired as he scanned each of Wilson's reading choices. Wilson nodded and reached for his wallet. Removing his American Express he handed it to the man. The young man slid the card across his register and handed it back to Wilson. "Thank you for shopping at Barnes and Noble. Be sure to come back and shop with us soon." he replied, sounding less excited about the prospect than Wilson was.

Stepping outside, Wilson felt a chill run through him as a strong crosswind blew across the parking lot. He felt accomplished and satisfied with himself. He had managed to retain control and had even made a friend, if she could be called that, without having to talk too much about what he was feeling. The thought of his encounter with Evelyn reminded him of the woman Cuddy had mentioned to him during their time at the café, Dr. Andrea Scanlon. He thought of how much ease he found in talking about his loss with Evelyn, a woman he had never spoken to before, and decided he should call Andrea when he had a little bit of time on his hands. If nothing else he could confirm to Cuddy that he had spoken to someone about his emotions and she would be satisfied. He felt like he owed her that much, if nothing else.

Reaching his car, he withdrew his keys from his pocket and rested the books he had purchased on the roof. Another crosswind blew his hair across his face and caused him to fumble with the lock. "Damn it!" he shouted. Resting his hands on the driver's side window he composed himself and attempted to unlock the door a second time, this time with much more success. Collecting the books from the roof of the car he climbed in, buckled his seatbelt, and turned the car over. Glancing across the seat to his cell he saw that no one else had tried to reach him while he was in the store. "Just House," he said to no one as he shifted and started out of the parking lot, "wonderful. If I'm feeling up to it later I'll call you back, but don't hold your breath."

There would be time to take care of the loose ends at the hospital tomorrow. As he left the parking lot he looked over at the bottle and caught himself looking at the clock, expecting to see it reward him with his patience, but it indicated that he would have to wait a bit longer before he could release the building tension. Letting out a burst of oxygen he felt his muscles become lax. He could feel a sense of failure washing over himself as he reached for the bottle. "No," he said aloud, "I won't fail you." he said, speaking to Amber. Searching his soul for the strength to deal with the cravings, he pushed the button to lower his car window and tossed the bottle into the street, hoping he had made the right choice.


	5. Loose Ends

Chapter Five:  
Loose Ends

"_**Dear Agony, just let go of me - suffer slowly - is this the way it's got to be?" - Breaking Benjamin, "Dear Agony"**_

The next morning Wilson awoke with a sense of absolute apprehension. He felt himself becoming tense and reached for the bottle of Valium that would have been resting on his vanity; however, upon groping around he remembered that he had thrown it out the window of his moving car the afternoon before. Leaning back on the bed he let out a long sigh and tried to calm himself. After several minutes he felt the efforts were futile and resigned to simply dealing with the discomfort and tension.

He spent the next hour and a half drifting through the apartment moving through the motions he felt contributed to his "normal life", taking a shower, making breakfast, and dressing himself. Each new routine seemed to create a new and unexpected challenge for him. The shower, which shouldn't have caused the slightest second thought, became a marathon of endurance as each new splash of water smacked down upon his bare silhouette. Part of him wanted to remove the obligatory "cold water" which fashioned his ability to remain in the otherwise brutal heat longer. He wanted to feel the bitter sting of the droplets of heated water beating across him like razors along his wrists.

Making breakfast brought the hazy memories of Amber cooking him his morning meals before he would leave for the hospital. He found himself unable to avert his observation of the coffee mug that she had left the evening she was taken from him; containing the revenants of the Pepsi she had been drinking awaiting her. He knew that it was unsanitary to leave the mug as she had left it, but he couldn't bring himself to clean it and remove the drink. It was all he had left of her and, as audacious as it sounded, he didn't want to remove it from where she had left in case of her return. He knew this was a castle in the sky, but it helped him sleep at night and he wasn't about to question it.

Dressing himself was something he had been doing, with much success, since he was six years old. He was like most children his age and wanted to explore the various styles and fashions, each new era of his life dictating his new style, starting with his late childhood as the preppy boy, followed by the teens as the angst ridden Goth, and finally his twenties - and with it college and med school - brought the starched collar business suit wearing James Wilson.

This morning, however, none of that seemed to matter. He shifted from his weekly business attire to his more relaxed weekend wear and found himself continually unhappy with his choices. He finally, after much debate and effort, decided upon a pair of new blue jeans Amber had bought him, designed to look old, and The Dead Milkmen, one of several band shirts he had managed to steal from House over the decades, t-shirt. Even those brought back unwanted memories of Amber, helping him establish a weekend look that wasn't, as she had lovingly called it, "bland and out of date."

Once he had managed to trudge through the weary day-to-day routines he felt entrapped by he started packing for his journey. He didn't know how long he it would be before he returned to Princeton, but he knew it would be more than a week. It was with this mindset that he chose several outfits - each unique in its own right - and two suits. He knew that it was likely he wouldn't need the suits, but he brought them along because he believed it was better to be ready for anything. Checking to make sure he had enough clothes with him, he walked over to the vanity and selected several novels to bring along - beyond the ones he had purchased the afternoon before - in case he ran out of things to read along the way.

Glancing around one final time to make sure he didn't miss anything, he zipped the suitcase closed and rested it at the door. He knew he would have he couldn't leave the apartment as it was. He would need someone trustworthy to house sit for him in his absence. He would deal with that once he was done tying up loose ends at the hospital. Wilson knew he could trust Cameron and Chase to watch the apartment, but he kept coming back to Cuddy as the most reliable option he would have. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. He would be laying a lot upon her shoulders as it was, he didn't want to weigh her down too much. He owed her that much.

There was a solemn silence that filled the air as he walked to the front door. He was aware that this could be the final time he slept there, showered there, ate in the small kitchenette, or watched a movie. In his heart he knew that he would return, sooner or later, but it wouldn't be before he found himself; found what was missing from his life. It could be a two week long vacation and he could come back full of life and ready to resume his duties as the Head of Oncology or it could be months before he was able to find it in himself to return and even that might be to wrap up the loose ends dangling above him at the hospital so he feel better about leaving. For what felt like the first time in his life, James Wilson had no idea what he was heading towards.

With a vague sense of accomplishment and the aspiration to carry on he walked through the front door and stepped out into the warm May air. Wilson found it anomalous that the section of town he resided in seemed to be vivacious at the strangest hours of the day, yet at the first signs of morning, it felt almost tranquil. Checking the time, he saw that it was a few minutes after eight in the morning. It was often around this time that the street was bustling with people coming home from their evening shifts and others were venturing out to begin their adventures in the corporate universe.

"Strange." he said to himself as he hauled the suitcase to the trunk of the car. Fumbling with the keys, he finally located the one to open the trunk. Lifting the suitcase and resting it inside he felt a sense of satisfaction. He had taken the first steps on the Healing Road. Proud of himself, he climbed in the car and turned it over, heading towards Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He was feeling confident that things would run smoothly once he arrived.

Wilson was stunned that the drive from Amber's former apartment to the hospital was as unadulterated as taking a delightful walk with Amber through Princeton's eloquent Autumn Leaves Park and Camping Grounds. He had been expecting a catalyst of constant reminders of his relationship with Amber, wave after wave of unexpected and unwarranted suffering that he would have no defense against. He knew it would be made worse by the actuality that he had thrown the one cure he had was now somewhere below the streets of Princeton, likely making its way to New York or some other exotic location. Brushing those thoughts and feelings from his mind, Wilson focused on the drive to the hospital.

It wasn't long before he found himself in the Visitor's Parking section of the hospital. He knew that he wouldn't have much trouble if he wanted to be closer to the building - namely in his own parking spot - but it didn't feel right. He wasn't coming in as Dr. James Wilson. He was entering the hospital as a visitor now, as another one of the hundreds of people who walked through the double doors. He didn't require any concessions on his behalf. Parking several hundred yards from the entrance also afforded him the time he needed to brace himself for what was ahead of him.

Climbing out of the car he took in a deep breath. Glancing around, he hadn't known how long he had held his breath, but he could feel the sting from within his lungs. He knew that it had been longer than he had expected. Letting out the breath, he felt the tension in his chest release and a sense of ease wash over him. Continuing to survey the parking lot he saw that it wasn't as crowded as he had been expecting it to be. This would make it a bit more difficult to avoid the nurses, but he was certain that he could manage. Closing the door on the car he took his first step forward toward the double doors that he had walked through countless times before.

As he shuffled from his vehicle he listened to snippets of conversations. Each one was as unique as the last, however, there seemed to be a singular topic that each fostered: the hospital. Some exuded excitement about the return of loved ones who had entered ill but were now leaving healthy, some were abundant with remorse over lost loved ones, who unlike the prevalence of others who enter, would not be leaving in such brilliant conditions.

Still, some were snippets of conversations between doctors. Wilson felt a pang of anger wash over him as he drew closer to the double doors and caught a fragment of a conversation. He was unsure who the two conversing were, but what he did know was both were doctors and both were discussing House's failure. It was a stark reminder of the reason he would be standing in Cuddy's office, hands at his sides, feeling as if the ground beneath his was rushing up to smack him in the face, and unsure of what to say. Swallowing the growing lump in his throat, Wilson continued to the entrance.

There was a soft whoosh sound as he drew closer to the double doors. He felt a slight breeze as he enter, mussing with his hair, causing him to shiver. Once he had breached the hospital he allowed himself to glance around and take stock of what was going on around him. To his right he saw the wall that notified visitors and doctors alike of the donations that had been made, what was coming up, and who was the "Doctor of the Month." Ahead of him were the elevators, where he had spent more time than he cared to amount talking with House, making bad excuses, and making amends. It became painfully clear to him that it was also within the cold steel walls, lifeless and bland, that he had first met Amber and offered his best attempt at small-talk.

Forcing those thoughts from his mind, Wilson spun on his heel and swerved to his left; toward his final destination in the hospital. Standing before him was the Clinic, where he had spent most of his free time doing the countless hours of Clinic Duty that House had neglected while he was off "saving lives." Taking a deep breath, he ventured along the invisible road that he had walked so often it was second nature to him now. He stopped for a moment to take in the frosted lettering above the twin sets of double doors. The frosting read "Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine". It was something that he had intrinsically known was there, but never had taken the time to look at; it was something akin to his friendship with House.

"I can do this," he said to himself as he reached for the handles on the first set of doors, "I have to do this. Christ, listen to yourself! You should like you're a damn bumbling detective!" Wilson scoffed at himself. He could feel the cold steel door handle beneath his hand. It became apparent to him that he was looking down at the handle as he shifted his weight to open the door. Looking up, he saw that the woman he had come to speak with was sitting behind her desk, with an unknown figure sitting before her. Wilson felt himself becoming panicked and started to turn, but he caught himself before it was too late.

It wasn't until he was moving through the second set of double doors that he saw who the strange figure was. Wilson felt his fists becoming clinched, tighter with each passing second, as the figure's features became clear. The long shaft of a cane, the half done collar of a dress shirt, and the messy hair. Wilson wanted to scream, but he fought back the creeping desire. Biting his lower lip, he moved from the entrance to the couch that was several feet to his right. House shifted his weight in the chair in front of Cuddy. She smiled to Wilson and motioned that she would need a moment. "As I was saying," she said to House, "I need you to behave like the fortysomething man that you are; in other words, I need you to be an adult." she scolded.

"I have been acting like an adult," House retorted suavely, "but it's difficult to do my damn - you know what? I'm having trouble giving a damn what you're doing. How about you, Wilson?" he asked looking back to Wilson. Wilson could feel his heart sinking in his chest as House spoke. "Oh, Wilson!" he shouted. He knew that House wouldn't take silence as an answer, but he wasn't about to find himself following along with his antics.

"House, I'm not in the mood for this." he replied. House stared at him almost as if he was studying a strange new disease. Wilson knew that he would have to find something to say that would allow him to make his point, but he was never quite sure what that something was when dealing with House. "I'm here to speak with Cuddy; nothing more. Now, take care of what you're taking care and I'll take care of what I have to and we can move along." he spoke with conviction that felt like he was lying to all three of them.

"House," Cuddy snapped at House drawing his attention back to her, "I need you to leave Wilson alone. Go. Go and do the damn MRI you were waltzing in here acting like a two year old about." she said with a tone of absolute exhaustion. He could tell that House had been wearing down on her nerves more than usual, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to help her without drawing the kind of attention that he was attempting to avoid.

Wilson watched as House stood, looked for a moment at Cuddy, and then him. "You know, if you wore something as low-cut as that, Wilson, I might be inclined to -" he said, but before he had a chance to choke out the rest of the statement, Wilson watched as Cuddy came around from behind her desk to meet him face-to-face. He could feel the tension between the two of them, Cuddy standing firm with her right hand on her hip and her left hand being used as a threat, and him standing several inches taller - almost looming over her - resting on his cane and bolstering that childish stance he wore better than most six year olds.

"Finish that statement and I swear to God House that you will be spending the rest of your natural born life in the Clinic," she threatened, "now, leave the two of us alone before I call someone -" she continued. For a moment she hesitated, unsure of how to finish the threat, but it didn't take long before House was back in the frontlines. Wilson wanted to climb inside the couch and vanish, but he knew that would be impossible.

"Or else what?" he scoffed back at her, "You know damn well that I'm the best you have!" he shouted. Wilson could feel the tension in his chest becoming too much to handle, but he fought back the physical signs that might offer House a clue. "And what the hell are you doing here, Wilson?" he asked, directing all of his attention to Wilson now. Wilson bit down on his lower lip. "Well, what are you doing here Wilson? It's a simple question." he teased.

"House, I'm not playing around right now. Leave before this becomes a lot worse than it is." Cuddy said moving from in front of the desk. She was now standing between Wilson and House. Wilson stood from the couch and drew closer to House. "James," she said resting a hand on his chest, "sit back down." she was doing her best to exude her authority, but her small frame seemed to vanish between the two men.

"Please don't stand in the middle of this, Lisa." Wilson replied, removing her hand from his chest. He watched as House took each intricate motion in. He knew that his mind was spinning with the hundreds of solutions to this puzzle, what it might mean, and how to exploit it. Wilson knew that look too well, having seen it during hundreds of their strange conversations when House would up and leave without warning. "House, I'm warning you. I am not in the mood to be dealing with your shit right now. Am I clear?" he asked.

"Crystal." House replied. There was a distance to his tone that frightened Wilson a bit. He was unsure if House was making the same assumption that most would make in relation to the tenderness between himself and Cuddy or if he was in the middle of an epiphany in regards to his current case. "How long have you two been dating behind my back?" he asked. Wilson felt a surge of anger rush through him. House's lips fashioned into a smirk. Wilson knew that if he tried to defend the friendship it would offer House more evidence and if he blew it off it would be the same as proclamation.

"House how dare you ask something so immature," Cuddy exclaimed almost shouting now, "leave now before I make damn sure you're living in the Clinic. Do the damn tests, have Thirteen or Foreman bring me the results, and solve the fucking case. I don't care. Just get the hell out of my office." she fumed. It was within that moment that Wilson understood the exact meaning of the saying "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" and was happy to be standing on the outside of the fury.

Wilson watched as House struggled to find a response. It wasn't often that House was left without something to say; some cynical remark or one of the hundreds of cruel observations he would often use to tear someone else down. Wilson silently relished the moment. "Oh, come on! It doesn't take a neurologist to see that the two of you are -" House was interrupted by the sudden connection of Wilson's fist and his jaw. "Son of a bitch!" he yelped aloud as he fell back. There was a loud crash as he smacked the floor and his cane danced across the room to the double doors.

"That felt," Wilson said turning his attention to Cuddy now, "that was a long time coming, am I right? God, this fucking…ouch." he continued. Looking down it became obvious to him that despite having used little force to hit House, he had still managed to hit him swiftly enough to draw blood on his knuckles. "I should be leaving now." he replied, looking from House on the floor to the Dean of Medicine. There was a long silence as he watched her collect her thoughts. "Lisa, I didn't mean for it to end like that." he offered, nursing his bleeding hand.

"I don't know what to do," she replied finally, "I mean, he did have that coming to him." she rested her left hand on her hip and used the right to brush back her hair. "James, this doesn't excuse the fact that you've…I don't even - how - what can I do?" she asked him. There was a tone of cross in her voice that spelled it out to him. She was upset, but she was debating on how to handle the case. "I can't let you off on this." she continued, searching for an answer.

"I don't know what to do," she replied finally, "I mean, he did have that coming to him." she rested her left hand on her hip and used the right to brush back her hair. "James, this doesn't excuse the fact that you've…I don't even - how - what can I do?" she asked him. There was a tone of cross in her voice that spelled it out to him. She was upset, but she was debating on how to handle the case. "I can't let you off on this." she continued, searching for an answer.

House moaned as he reached out for his cane. Wilson wanted to help the man he once knew as his best-friend, but he knew that would be like rubbing it in his face. "That was," he choked out, "I had that coming." he said as he climbed to his feet. "I had that coming…" he mumbled now, bracing himself on the chair he had been resting in before Wilson had arrived. Cuddy walked over to the doors and retrieved his cane, offering it to him, but he motioned for her to rest it on the couch next to them. "I'll be leaving now." he said with finality.

"House," Wilson said as House shuffled out of the room, "I need time." he knew he was speaking in tongues, though. House was in his own little fantasy land. He knew there wasn't much left to be said, so he turned his attention back to Cuddy, who was taking her seat behind the desk. "I've also decided to talk to that friend, uh, Dr. Scanlon? I'll need the information so I can find her." he said softly. Cuddy smiled for a brief moment and wrote something down on a scrap of paper.

"I will call her and let her know to expect a visit from the best damn oncologist that I know." she replied with a soft smile. Wilson took the information. "James," she said as he moved toward the doors, "take care of yourself."

"Yeah." he replied trying to hide the sullen tone that had overtaken him. He knew that he could have talked to her for a few more minutes, but he already felt like he was taking too much of her time. As he left the office, and the hospital, he couldn't help but think of something he had once read. It was in reference to the death of a friend, or a loved one, he wasn't sure. All he could remember were the final words that were written at the end of the page: "the most difficult part of saying hello is knowing that, eventually, you will have to say goodbye."


	6. Strangers on a Train

Chapter Six:  
Strangers on a Train

"_**He took the midnight train going anywhere…" - Journey, "Don't Stop Believing"**_

As Wilson stood before the terminal board in the train station he felt the sudden pang of being overwhelmed. The amount of options before him, the trains that were coming and leaving the station, each another chance to distance himself from Princeton-Plainsboro. "That's a lot of choices." he said aloud as his eyes scanned the list to see when the next train to New York would be departing. He didn't care so much where in New York it left him, so long as it wasn't in the city. He could rent a car and drive from wherever he found himself to Schenectady. Still, the ever shifting entries and departures listed before him felt like an ocean of options and each one was more enticing than the last.

"Sir," a warm female voice echoed through his mind as he continued to check the board, "sir, you're next." the woman's voice echoed. Wilson blinked several times before directing his attention from the departures board to the woman that was speaking to him.

"I'm never this spaced out," he apologized to the woman as he moved closer to her booth, "it's been awhile since I was in a train station like this one; or anything like this." he said absent mindedly. Wilson found it difficult to articulate the exact train that he was looking to be on. "I would like the next train to New York. I don't mind where its destination is either." he said feeling exhausted.

The woman checked her computer in silence. Wilson found himself feeling more and more uncomfortable with each passing second. Glancing around the train station his mind drifted back to his encounter with House in Cuddy's office. It had been so out of character for him to react in the fashion which he had, but he felt almost as if House had it coming to him. House had crossed a line and Wilson knew it didn't matter how he reacted because House would have taken it as his logic was sound. Wilson hated that it had come down to that, but he knew that it was the only response to House's accusation.

Wilson's thoughts were interrupted as the woman looked up from her computer. "You're in luck, sir. We have a train leaving for Mastic Beach in about an hour. Is there anything else I can assist you with?" the woman asked. There was a lull as Wilson tried to remember where Mastic Beach was. "Was there something else I could assist you with?" she asked a second time.

"Oh," Wilson replied feeling a bit confused, "yeah, you don't happen to know the driving time from Mastic Beach to Schenectady?" he asked. Wilson watched as the woman considered what he was asking. He knew he could reach in his coat and remove his cell, make a quick call or two, and have that answer, but she had asked if there was anything else he needed. There was also the fact that Wilson wanted little to nothing to do with his cell at the moment.

"Um, allow me a moment to check on that for you." the woman replied returning her attention back to her computer. Wilson let out a soft sigh as he waited for the woman to check. He could tell that he was starting to grate on her nerves, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. "The average driving time between the two is about four hours or two hundred and twentysomething miles, sir." she offered. It was a bit further than he would have liked, but there was no use in fighting with the woman about checking another departure.

"That's a few miles more than I was expecting," Wilson said keeping his voice as level as he could, "but it will have to do." he continued. He would have to locate a rental service near the station, but that was something he had already figured upon. It was simply three hours of more driving that he had anticipated on. "I'll take a single ticket for that train." he said reaching into his wallet and removing his credit card. The woman took his card and processed the ticket, handing it to him with a curt smile. "Thank you." Wilson replied as he left the booth.

As he left the booth Wilson felt a strange vibration rustling in his coat. It took him a moment to realize that it was his cell, which he had switched from ring when he had arrived at the station. Removing it from his coat he checked the name on the caller screen. It was Daniel, Amber's oldest brother, who had been out of town when Wilson called to let him know about his sister. For a moment all he could do was stare at the cell, watching as it danced around in his hand, not sure if he should take the call or not. Wilson knew that Daniel would leave a message if he didn't pick up, but it would mean that the next time he called he would have to deal with his verbal abuse.

Running his right hand through his brunette hair Wilson decided that he would deal with Daniel later. He had other things on his mind right now and couldn't be bothered to deal with someone who called himself a brother, but couldn't find his way to his only sister's funeral. Wilson knew from dealing with dying patients that it was often the closest siblings that took it the hardest when he came in the room to deal the news, but this didn't excuse them for being unavailable when it was time to say their final goodbyes. Replacing the cell back in his coat, Wilson felt around for the small bottle of Valium that he knew wouldn't be there.

Satisfied that Daniel could wait until he was ready to deal with him, Wilson left the main terminal and found a bench to rest on. Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he removed the cell from his coat once again, this time turning it off. He knew that if Cuddy, Thirteen, or Cameron and Chase had tried to reach him that they wouldn't think too much on the fact that his cell was turned off. If it was something dire there would be a message or a collection of texts waiting for him when he eventually turned it back on. Once he had shut down the cell, Wilson reached into his bag and removed the Michael Crichton novel he had bought at the local Barnes and Noble the afternoon before. Checking the back of the novel again, he found that he was rather excited to start reading it.

There was a soft crackling sound as he opened the novel. It was one of the few small comforts that he could take asylum in; and while he knew that it wasn't the real reason he was in the bookstore the afternoon before he found it strange that he was more excited about reading the single Crichton novel he hadn't read than starting on his healing road. He knew that he would eventually find himself in a state of mind when he could take the time it would require to read _The Stoic Sage: Coping With Your Grief_, but right now he wanted nothing more than to be taken along on an exciting and challenging adventure. One that didn't require the same type of introspection that Dr. Stewart's book would.

Wilson had become so involved in the novel that he almost didn't hear the train station's loud speaker calling out that his train had arrived. "Guess it's about that time," he spoke aloud to no one, "amazing novel, Crichton." he continued as he deposited _Sphere _back in his baggage. Glancing across the terminal to the huge wall clock he saw that it was about six in the evening. He knew that he would be on the train for at least two and a half hours, which meant that he wouldn't be in Mastic Beach until - the earliest - about eight in the evening. He would have to call Andrea and let her know that he wouldn't be able to make it to Schenectady much before the following afternoon.

Joining the shuffle of bodies through the terminal to the train, Wilson felt like he was heading off to an unknown destination. It was a feeling that had eluded him since he had lost Amber. He welcomed the feeling like he would an old friend he hadn't seen in years. There was a sudden sense that he was on the right track, that taking this train to New York was where he was meant to be. He could feel the grief washing away from him and that strange calm he had felt before coming back. Smiling to himself, he took a seat next to the window. He knew that there was a strong chance that he wouldn't be alone - it was a commuter train, after all - and didn't mind. It wouldn't be so bad having someone to talk to for a bit while he was reading.

"Is this seat taken?" a confident female voice asked. Wilson was in the middle of resting his baggage on the seat next to him that he didn't check to see who the woman was. He motioned to her that it wasn't and he listened as she took the seat across from him. "You look kind of familiar," the woman's voice said to him as he located the book, "do I know you from somewhere?" she asked. Wilson sat the novel down beside himself and looked across the cabin to the woman with him.

As he looked at the woman sitting across from him, her auburn hair resting along the edge of her shoulders and her hazel eyes drilling into him, he couldn't help but share her sense of recognition. He wasn't quite sure where he had seen this woman before, but he knew her. "Yeah," he replied softly as he searched his memories for whom this mysterious female might be, "you do look like someone I've seen before." he said still unsure of who she was. The woman leaned back in her seat, letting out a loud sigh. "Do you have someone who is staying at the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital?" he asked, testing the waters. He didn't want to make the woman feel uncomfortable, but she seemed like someone he might have known via a patient; she might even be a former patient of his that he couldn't remember at the moment.

"No," she replied as her hazel eyes continued to drill into him, "but I am a book slave over at the Princeton Barnes and Noble." she offered. Glancing across the cabin to his seat, he saw that she noticed _Sphere _and a radiant smile drew along her youthful lips. "You're the doctor who lost his woman," she spoke with a soft tone that reflected her sorrow in his situation, "and bought that amazing Michael Crichton novel, _Sphere_! Kind of obvious, considering you have it sitting on the seat beside you." she said. Wilson looked over to the novel and felt himself flush a small bit. "You also bought that self-help book," she continued, "oh, what was it? The one from Dr. Stewart. God, what was it?" she asked herself.

"_The Stoic Sage: Coping With Your Grief_," Wilson replied assisting the young woman, "and so far I have yet to even crack it open. I was so caught up in this," he continued drawing _Sphere _closer to himself, "it's an exceptional novel. I can't thank you enough for talking me into it." he offered. The young woman smiled at him and for a moment Wilson felt more at ease than he had been. There was an absolutely disarming quality about this woman.

"That's right," she said with a hint of laughter in her tone, "I'm delighted that you find it as wonderful as I've heard it was. I should score a copy while I'm out this weekend." she said, almost rambling now. Wilson offered her a smile, feeling a warm sensation course through him, "So, what brings you to this wonderful bit of mass transit, Mr…" she inquired. Her voice trailed off as she tried to identify who Wilson was, which reminded him that he had also forgotten the young woman's name as well.

"You can call me James," Wilson said as the young woman crossed her legs and let out a soft sigh, "or Wilson. Most call me Wilson, though." he said rambling. It was unlike him to find himself rambling this much. Taking a long breath he could feel himself becoming a bit tense, his muscles reacting in synchronicity with his thoughts. Wilson cursed himself under his breath for having thrown the bottle of Valium out the window of the car.

The young woman looked out the window for a brief moment before returning her attention to Wilson. "James," she said aloud almost as if she was musing, "mind if I call you Jim?" she asked. There was a moment of absolute silence as he tried to decode what she was saying. "I mean, if it's cool with you. I would never call a man something he didn't like being called; hell, I don't even call those bastards I call an ex bad names. Well, beyond the fact that I called 'em bastards just now. Oh, you know what I mean!" she exclaimed studying Wilson.

Wilson mulled over the idea of being called Jim instead of James or Wilson. It had been years since someone called him anything except the formal version of his name. "You know what?" Wilson asked feeling the tension becoming a bit more tolerable, "you sure can. I still don't know what to call you though." he said, making sure to soften the blow of not remembering the young woman's name by allowing her to refer to him as Jim instead of James.

The young woman beamed as she shifted her weight in the seat. "Awesome. I'm Evelyn, but you call me Eve. Most do," she replied holding out her hand, "so, Jim where are you heading on this most dreary of days? That is, if you don't mind me asking!" she inquired.

"Mastic Beach, as it were. But, that's where the train is leaving me. I'm sure you knew that, though." he replied. Eve nodded and continued to stare at him with an intense interest that he found difficult to quantify. "The truth of the matter is I'm heading to see a friend in the heart of Schenectady," he continued as the train started moving, "which is, as I'm told, one hell of a drive from Mastic Beach. Had I known this before I climbed on the train…" he offered allowing his voice to trail off a little.

"I don't know if I would call it 'one hell of a drive'," Eve said watching Wilson, "but it is a long way out." she replied. Wilson let out another sigh and rested his left hand on his temple. "You feeling alright, Jim?" Eve inquired reaching across the seat to her bag. "I have something to take the edge off," she offered as she dug through her bag, "I know it's in here." she mumbled.

"Oh," he replied watching her now, "I'm fine. Just a headache. Nothing I can't deal with. Thank you, though." he said. Eve rested the bag on the other end of the seat and nodded. "I'll be better as soon as there's some distance between me and Princeton." he mumbled looking out the window. Outside he could see the tree line moving so fast it all became a blur.

"You know what 'fine' means, don't you?" Eve asked. Wilson wasn't sure what she was driving at, but he knew that she would soon answer her own question no matter his response. In accept defeat he shook his head. "It means, Jim, that you're 'Freaking out', 'Insecure', 'Neurotic', and 'Emotional'." she replied with a smile. He had to admit that the woman did have a logic in her assessment that he hadn't been expecting.

"You sound like someone I work with," Wilson quipped, "you would like her. So, what brings you out this way?" he asked making small talk. He wanted to move on from discussing Amber and the hospital; he knew that he would soon enough be talking about that with Andrea. It also felt strange speaking to an almost total stranger about his work and his losses. Still, there was something calming and trustworthy about the young woman.

"I am about to meet the sister I never knew I had," she offered, "which is kind of cool, right? Granted, I don't know how to feel about it. I mean, I've lived the last twenty three years of my life not knowing this woman to have her revealed to me just last week. Kind of like that scene in the movies where someone appears out of the blue and it's all like 'oh, I'm your sister' type thing," Eve said pouring out her heart to him, "but at the same time it's kind of exciting! I have a sister! And I grew up with no one. Just me. All by my lonesome." she nodded.

There was a lull in the conversation as Wilson searched for something to say. It seemed to have come out of the blue, her response, and he didn't want to break the woman's spirit by saying something wrong. She had, after all, just laid it out before him. Taking a moment to balance his choices, he decided that the best course of action was to offer a curt smile. "Wow," he said smiling, "that sounds like quite an adventure. What's her name?" he asked.

After a moment of thoughtful consideration Eve laughed, "Her name is Andi. I don't know her full name, though. Just that when we talked on the cell the other day that she wanted me to call her Andi. She seems kind of cool, though." she replied. Wilson couldn't help but feel like the same sounded a bit familiar to him, but he was unsure where he had heard the name before. "So, I'm meeting her in a little coffee café thing on Long Island." she nodded.

"Well, in that case I wish you only the best of luck," Wilson continued to smile at Eve, "it should be a wonderful experience for the both of you." he slid back in his seat, allowing the canvas seat to envelop him. The soft sound of the fabric filled his ears. "Best of luck." he whispered closing his eyes.

He wasn't sure how long it had been, but he knew that it must have been at least an hour because the sun had set. Glancing around he saw that Eve was reading the novel he had brought with him. His first reaction was to find out when she had taken the novel, but he found it difficult to be upset with her. She had been nothing but honest and open with him. Filling his lungs with oxygen, he held it until he felt the burn from his lungs demanding release, and exhaled. The sound of him exhaling drew Eve's attention.

"You're awake," she said with a smile as she rested his novel on the seat beside her, "I was wondering how long it would be before you returned to the Land of the Living! I hope you don't mind." she said eyeing the novel on her seat. There was a swift shock as the train hit a bad section of the track and a loud crash echoed through the cabins. "Wow, that was a big one." she replied off-hand. Wilson faked a smile and looked over to the novel.

"How is it so far?" he asked attempting to make small talk, "I've only managed to read the first few chapters." he said. Eve shifted her weight and Wilson watched as she considered her answer. "Is it as awesome as the film? I hear it's pretty damn awesome." he said remembering the conversation that the two of them had shared in the aisles of Barnes and Noble.

"Oh, it's much better than the film. Dustin Hoffman has nothing on this," she said with a smirk, "I mean, sure he's cool and all, but the character is so much more fascinating in the novel. Kind of like Sam Neill as Grant in _Jurassic Park _when you compare it to how it's written in the novel - vast difference - but that isn't to say that the film version is bad." she said rambling. Wilson laughed a bit. "I didn't mean to take it, though. Just saw it sitting there and you were sleeping and I was about to flip through and check it out -" she continued, but Wilson stopped her in the middle of her thought.

"It's no trouble at all," he said waving his hand, "as long as it's being read. I can read more once I'm checked in at the hotel. Who knows? I might even find it in myself to start reading Dr. Stewart's book." he mused. Eve shifted her weight in the seat a second time and crossed her legs. Wilson found himself feeling that old feeling of lust building up within himself, but he knew that it wasn't real. It was the grief talking. Leaning closer, she returned the novel back to him with a smile.

"I don't know," she mused back at him, "but I don't think you're going to find what you're looking for in some self-help book. Sure, it will make you feel better, but in the end what does it leave you with?" she asked. Wilson was taken aback by the sudden philosophical logic she was expounding. "You might feel a bit better now and shit, but in the coming days and weeks? It becomes clear that the hole you filled wasn't filled enough and you need more; you need something else. I'm not trying to tell you that it was a waste of time and money - it wasn't - but if you are looking to overcome this depression…you need to live your life." she said with a tone that inflected the beyond her years logic.

Leaning back in his seat Wilson knew that Evelyn was right. He would never find the answers he was seeking in a novel, film, or the weathered journal entries he had written years before. He would have to search deep within himself to find the resolution that eluded him. Resting the Michael Crichton novel next to himself he looked over to Evelyn for a moment, contemplating a response. "Thank you for the advice, Evelyn." he replied as she settled in across from him. It wasn't much, but then, sometimes it was the simple things that made life worth living, wasn't it?


	7. In Between Days

Chapter Seven:  
In Between Days

"_**I am standing up at the water's edge in my dreams, but I cannot make a single sound as you scream…" - Peter Gabriel, "Red Rain"**_

Wilson had spent the last hour on the train thinking about what Evelyn had said to him. He knew that she was right. If he wanted to release himself from the guilt that was building up inside of him, of the tension that was brewing, he would not find the answers in either book he had brought along with him. Still, a small part of him wanted to believe that there would be a hidden message within the text, a secret letter written to him, which would reveal the solution that eluded him. Part of him still believed that, but he knew that in the end it would be left up to him to do what he had to; what felt right to him and allowed him to move on and become a man that Amber would be proud of.

Lost in his own thoughts he almost missed his station. "Jim," the soft voice of Eve echoed through his mind, "this is our stop." she said collecting her baggage. Wilson blinked several times as he reacquainted himself with the reality that was before him. "You feeling alright?" she asked with a hint of concern in her tone. Wilson wanted to assuage her fears and tell her that he was fine, but he knew that she would throw the list back at him. Faking a smile he returned _Sphere _to his own suitcase and stood.

"Do you need help carrying that?" he asked. Eve smiled at him and offered one of the smaller suitcases she had brought along. Wilson reached out to retrieve it from here when he noticed that she had converted it. "Oh," he said amused, "it's one of those wheel along types. I've been thinking about buying a set, but I don't know if it's worth the money or not." he rambled as he took the handle.

"It's been my experience that these are a lot better than," she checked to around as if she was about to reveal a dark secret, "the type that you can't rest down for a moment and wheel along the next." she said nodding. Wilson felt the tension in his subside and he let out a small laugh. It felt like he was with Amber again, he felt free to relax, but he knew that this chance encounter would soon be over. "I also think it would amazing if there was a kind of suitcase that doubled as a neat carriage for babies." she continued. Wilson couldn't help but feel like he had missed something.

"That would be pretty amazing," he replied as the two of them reached the base of the station's platform, "I wanted to thank you for making this a lot better than it would have been without you." Wilson continued, stumbling over his words. Eve smiled softly and rested her baggage down. "I mean, I'm thankful for being such a wonderful young woman and I hope everything works out between you and your sister." he returned the smile.

"Same," she replied studying Wilson, "I hope that you find what you're looking for, Jim. Should you need a night off, though, I wouldn't mind having a nice lunch or something with you." she said reaching into her pocket and removing a scrap of paper and a pen. "This is my cell," she smiled, "you can reach me at all odd hours of the night. I'm sure Andi would mind meeting a nice guy like you." she said retrieving her suitcases.

Wilson watched as she drifted from his sight, leaving him with a sensation of emptiness that he hadn't been expecting, but looking down at the scrap of paper with her number scrawled on it offered him a small comfort. Reaching down to retrieve his own suitcases he checked the massive clock on the station wall. It read that it was a few minutes after nine in the evening. The trip from Princeton had taken a bit longer than he had expected. He knew that his chance to rent a car would be slim to none. Checking around the terminal he tried to see if there was an information booth or graph that would show him where the nearest hotel or motel was located.

Across the terminal he saw what he was looking for. Wilson lurched forward to the graph on the wall, feeling the full weight of his suitcase bearing down upon his frail arms. He could feel the tension building once again. Letting out a long sigh he blew an errant strand of hair from his face. "I don't have time for this shit. I truly don't." he said to no one. Reaching the graph he scanned the outline of the area. As he saw the little symbols that informed him where the nearest rest stops were, the local McDonald's, and car rentals he found himself becoming as frustrated as he was when he had resolved the issues with House using his fists instead of his logical sense. "Is there nothing near here?" he asked aloud, the echo of his voice bouncing around him.

"You know, there's a hotel not too far from here and I don't mind having a friend coming along with me." said the familiar to him. "Can I interest you in coming? Or am I alone on this one?" she asked.

Closing his eyes, Wilson spun on his heel. There was a soft sound of laughter as he felt himself turning about. "Eve," he said as he opened his eyes, "I thought you were leaving. I mean, I wasn't expecting to see you so soon." he stumbled over his words more than usual. Eve continued to laugh, smiling the whole time, putting him at an uncomfortable ease.

"Jim," she said softly, "it's been less than five minutes. I don't think we can call that 'leaving' - do you?" she asked with a smile. Wilson blinked several times and debated what she had said. "If you like I can leave and wait about an hour or so and come back? The hotel's about five minutes down the road, so walking wouldn't be hard. So, what am I doing? Having company or leaving and coming back to bring you with me?" she asked resting her left hand on her hip.

"I don't suppose I have much of an option here, do I?" Wilson asked faking a smile. He knew that he could do much worse than spend the evening with Eve. He could spend the evening searching for the fabled hotel, sleeping in the train station terminal, and then wandering about in search of a car rental service. Eve crossed her arms while waiting for his response. "Seeing as how I don't have a choice in the matter -" he replied, but was cut off.

"Then it's decided!" Eve exclaimed with an exuberance that shocked Wilson a little bit, "I'll call and make the reservations. You don't mind sharing a room, do you? I don't snore or bite - much. At least, I don't think I bite much. You might have to tell me when too much is too much, though." she rambled as she took out her cell and dialed the number. Wilson smiled a little, for real this time, and tilted his head to the left and waited as she talked to the clerk at the hotel.

As he waited he found himself drawn to the small coffee shop that was across the terminal. It struck him as a bit odd having one there, but it was Long Island. He wasn't about to question it much. "Hey," he asked Eve as she was still on the line with the hotel, "I'm heading over to the coffee stop. You want something? On me." he offered. She smiled and motioned that she would be over in a moment. "I'll save you a spot." he said as he left her at the graph of the area and went to the café.

Standing in the café he saw that he was once again offered a plethora of options - this time of coffee and tea - and found himself amused. He had been in enough cafés to know that there were hundred, thousands even, types of tea and coffee, but he had never seen so many choices in one café before. As he mulled over the various flavors he felt his cell vibrating in his coat pocket. Letting out a long sigh and motioning for the clerk behind the counter that he would be moment he answered the call. "James Wilson." he said into the cell.

"James," said another familiar female voice, "I'm calling to check in. See how you are doing." she continued. Wilson searched his memories for the name of the female caller, but drew a blank. Taking a moment to check the caller ID he saw that it listed the caller as Cuddy. "…and I let her know you'll be there soon. Are you in New York?" she asked. Wilson felt like he had missed something, but he didn't want to have Cuddy repeat what she said.

"Yeah," he replied feeling his voice leveling out, "I'm in New York. Well, Mastic Beach. Just arrived. I should be in Schenectady before noon tomorrow." he said into the line. There was a moment of silence as he thought of something else he could say to ease her concern. "I'm doing fine. Met a wonderful woman on the train ride over here, uh, Evelyn. I don't remember her last name." he continued. It was in that moment that it dawned on him that he didn't really know that much about Eve yet he was more than willing to share a hotel with her.

"That's wonderful news. I'm happy for you," Cuddy replied, "you said her name was Evelyn? Strange." she continued. Wilson felt his heart skip a beat. His mind bounced around the hundreds of meanings that she might mean in her comment. "Andrea has a sister she's never met named Evelyn." she mused. Wilson felt the ground beneath him fall away. "Wonder if it's the same Evelyn."

"Andrea has a sister named Evelyn?" Wilson asked making sure he had heard Cuddy right, "Am I hearing you right?" he felt a sense of vertigo course through him. If he was right and the woman standing several yards from him on the cell about a hotel room for the two of them was the sister of the woman he would be seeing the following day the implications were astounding. "You think she's the sister of the doctor you sent me to?" he asked a second time.

"There's a chance she could be," she offered, "I mean, I when I spoke to Andi a few hours ago she mentioned that she was meeting her sister for the first time. I would venture to say that yes, it is her." Cuddy replied. Wilson was unsure if he should breathe a sigh of relief or run as far as he could from the situation before it became too entangled. "I don't see where it's a bad thing." she continued.

"Oh, no. I'm sure it's the same woman. I, uh, I'm having coffee with her in a sec. Can I call you back later?" he asked as he let the cell hang down at his side. He didn't wait for Cuddy's response. He took a breath and ran his hand through his hair and weighed the options. He could have the coffee with her and spend the evening in the hotel with her and decide what to do in the morning or he could run. Part of him, a small section that feared the possibilities, screamed at him to run as far as he could. Part of him, the logical and caring side, told him that it wouldn't be so bad spending time with her sister.

Returning his attention back to the coffee choices in front of him, he felt another wave of vertigo shoot down his spine. "How can I assist you, sir?" the young man behind the counter asked. Wilson was caught off guard by the question. He was still unsure of what he wanted. "There is a special on the Macchiato, if that's your thing." the youth offered. Wilson cocked his head and wondered what the young man was trying to do.

"I'll take," he said musing the options and trying to forget the conversation he had with Cuddy moments before, "the Macchiato. That sounds really fucking good right about now." he replied. The young man retracted a moment and started to make his drink. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. Just been a long day." Wilson apologized. The young man shrugged and continued to make the Macchiato.

As he waited for the coffee he saw out of the corner his eye that Eve was almost done with the hotel. Wilson knew that he had several seconds before she would be standing next to him and he continued to weigh the options. He decided, as she closed the cell and drew close, that he best bet was to let the connection be what it was and not worry too much about what it might mean. "Hey," she said with a smile, "you order yet?" she asked resting her hands in her jean pockets. Wilson smiled and motioned for the young man behind the counter to take her order. "I'll have what he's having. Can't be too bad, right? What are you having, Jim?" she inquired as Wilson walked over to the register.

"That would be a Macchiato. You can have the first one. I'll take the one he's making now," he offered as the young man set the first one on the counter and returned his attention to making the second, "so, how's the hotel looking?" he asked. Eve smiled and nodded as she took a sip of the Macchiato. "I'll take that to mean we have a room." he replied as she continued to drink. She nodded a second time and he felt the troubles washing away. It didn't matter that she was, in fact, Andrea's sister.

"We're as right as rain," she said resting the coffee on the counter, "I was able to land us a decent double bed room. I figured it was better than having to have us sharing a bed or worse - you or me sleeping on the chair. Uh, those chairs are some of the worst ever." she explained as Wilson reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet so he could pay for the coffee. "Thank you for the, uh, what is it? Macchiato? Yeah. Thank you." she said with a smile.

"It was my pleasure," Wilson replied as he carried the cup to the table across from where the two of them were standing, "I know it's not something I have a real right to ask, but is your sister's name Andrea Scanlon?" he asked. He knew the answer before she replied with it, but as he watched the lines in her face mull over the inquiry he felt his heart skipping along like a stone in the water on a warm summer's afternoon. "Just wondering."

Eve continued to think it over as she had her Macchiato before finally answering the question. "Yeah," she replied, "it is. How do you know her?" she asked. It was the exact response that he had been expecting, but he was unsure how to answer her own inquiry. He knew that if he was honest it wouldn't make him look bad, she helped him find the self-help book after all, but he wasn't sure how she would take it that he would be seeing her as his temporary therapist. "She the one you're coming all the way out here to see?"

"As Fate would have it," he replied taking his coffee in his hand and allowing the heat from the liquid to sooth him over, "I'm seeing her tomorrow. Kind of ironic, don't you think?" he asked making small talk now. The small part of him that wanted him to run was becoming silent as he shared the coffee with her. He knew that he had overreacted to the news. "I mean, we meet at Barnes and Noble and then the train and now we find out that we're seeing the same woman in the next few hours? How strange is that?" he asked.

"I knew I met you for a reason, Jim. Now I know what that reason is. I'm kind of happy I didn't leave you standing there, staring at the graphs looking for that hotel, and feeling alone. It all makes sense to me now, like The Universe has revealed what it was trying to tell me a few days back." she said taking another sip of the coffee.

Wilson smiled. He felt like everything was starting to look brighter than it had been. If nothing else he had made an incredible friend in Eve. That alone was worth the ticket to Mastic Beach and New York as a whole. "The Universe does speak to us, huh? Care to come along on this strange healing road I'm on? I could use the company." he offered. Eve smiled softly and finished the coffee she was drinking.

"Let's head over to the hotel and sleep on it before we decide if I'm the right companion to take along on such a journey of self discovery." she replied. There was an absolute sincerity in her tone that Wilson found was a welcome change. He didn't mind waiting. There was a long drive ahead of him, about four hours, and if he could do it with someone else it would alleviate the loneliness that he had been fearing the whole time.


End file.
